She caught my glances and maybe my disappointment.
"You've been seeing Duncan Winning?"
"Sorta," I said.
"Sorta?"
"We haven't gone on any formal date."
"What's a formal date?" she asked, laughing. "These days, it's meeting in the rear seat of someone's car."
"I meant we haven't done too many things together."
"You don't have to do too many things, just one thing," she teased. She was beginning to frustrate me. "Well, I have to admit there's something sexy about him. However, I don't think I could be with him," she added quickly.
He certainly couldn't be with you, I thought, but I didn't say anything. She gave me a knowing, licentious smile, as if we now shared intimate secrets about each other, Then she went to take care of some summer school college students, three boys and two girls, who had come in for something to eat. I sat back and watched them laughing and joking with each other. They seemed so carefree, loose and happy. What were their lives like? Their parents? Would I ever be like them?
I tried not to be too obvious listening in on their conversations. Just like Cassie, they struck me as young people unconcerned about tomorrow. Yes, they were saying, the future was out there with its responsibilities, but who needed that now? Listening to them talk and picking up some tidbits of information about each, I had the impression that if they could, they'd prolong their college educations for years and years. One boy even said he was thinking about cutting his final exam just to extend his college life. They were all critical of their parents for pressuring them to get on with their lives.
"You're only young forever once," a boy said, and they all laughed.
Watching and listening to them, I felt like the poor waif standing outside the restaurant window watching other people enjoy their food. I was so into their conversation that I didn't hear Aunt Zipporah call to me. She had to come over to nudge me to get my attention.
"Hey, I was calling you. Are you okay?"
"Oh, sorry. I was daydreaming."
"Let's go home early," Aunt Zipporah told me. "Tyler doesn't need us, and I feel like soaking in a hot bath and kicking back for a change."
"Okay."
We left and started for home. When we made the turn to start down the road my aunt and uncle's house was on, I was sure I saw Duncan off to the side, half in and out of the shadows, leaning on his scooter just the way he would outside the cafe. I didn't say anything, but my heart was pounding. Why was he out there? Why hadn't he called or come to the cafe?
I didn't say anything to my aunt, first, because I wasn't absolutely sure I had seen him, and second, because I didn't want to add any more strange behavior and get her to forbid me from spending any time with him.
"You sure you're okay?" Aunt Zipporah asked. "Yes, I'm fine."
"You're so quiet," she said as we approached the house.
"Maybe I did work too hard on my painting today. I get so into it," I said, "I don't realize how much it can drain me emotionally."
She nodded. "I understand. I just get a little nervous. I was always afraid when your mother became too quiet."
"Why?"
"I felt as if-she was lowering herself into some darkness from which she wouldn't emerge, retreating into herself, locking herself away. I'd do and say anything I could think of to get her into a jolly mood again. It was like throwing someone a lifeline."
"And you're afraid I've inherited that, right? You and my grandmother are both afraid of it. I know," I said before she could deny it. "I know depression can be inherited."
"You know too much for your own good," she said, laughing. "I can't even be subtle with you."
"You don't have to be, Zipporah. I can take the truth."
"I know you can, Alice, but I wish you couldn't." "What? Why?"
"I wish you could yet be the young girl you've a right to be. I wish you were able to fall back on your imagination and escape harsh realities the way your mother and I were able to do."
"Yes," I said as the garage door went up, "so do I."
I anticipated Duncan's arrival any moment and was surprised when he didn't come to knock on the door or ring the doorbell. I sat waiting in the living room while Aunt Zipporah took her bath. She lit some incense and played one of Tyler's Latin chant recordings made by monks. She wanted me to do the same thing, assuring me it would help me sleep and feel so much better. She was so good at describing the beneficial effects, and she did look so relaxed afterward, that I took her up on it and filled the tub, relit the candles and put on the same music. I had given up on Duncan coming to see me.
After I undressed, I looked at the scars around my hip. Whenever I did, it seemed I was looking at someone else's body, as if I had risen out of my own. It was at this moment that I really wished I could do what Aunt Zipporah had described she and my mother could do. Perhaps then I could look at myself and not see the damage. However, if ever I hoped and dreamed that what had happened had been only a nightmare, the scars were there to shout out the reality and keep inc from forgetting or ignoring the past. My imagination was just not up to the task.
Carefully, I lowered myself into the tub and closed my eyes. The warm water felt like a glove around my body. The chanting was as soothing as the water, and I did like the scent of Aunt Zipporah's incense. If only I could stay like this forever, I mused, living in a cocoon woven out of the warmth of the water, the music and the scent of the incense. I'd almost sell my soul for it,
I thought and then suddenly had the feeling I wasn't alone. I opened my eyes.
The door was closed. Aunt Zipporah had gone up to bed. There was no one in the bathroom. Nevertheless, the feeling persisted. I sat up then and looked up and into the window. Duncan's face was framed in it. He was staring in at me. He wasn't smiling. He actually looked like he was in pain.
"Duncan!" I called.
He blinked, and then he was gone so fast I wasn't sure I hadn't imagined it. After all, why would he suddenly become a Peeping Tom anyway? Why wouldn't he have just come to the front door? He had seen me undressed. We had kissed and been warm and intimate with each other. What possible satisfaction would there be for him to gape at me in the tub?
I got out quickly, put out the candles and turned off the music. Then, wrapping a bath towel around myself, I shoved my feet into my slippers and, still not dry, hurried out and to the front door. I opened it and stepped out, listening and looking through the darkness.
"Duncan!" I cried. "Are you out here? Duncan!"
There was no response. I waited, my hair dripping, and then I was sure I heard the sound of his scooter somewhere farther down the road. It quickly disappeared. He was here, I thought. He was.
The entire experience gave me the shivers, on top of the fact that I was dripping wet. I rubbed myself with the towel, then went back inside. Aunt Zipporah had heard me calling. She was at the top of the stairway.
"Alice? Is something wrong?"
"No," I said quickly. "I thought I heard someone at the front door, that's all. There was no one," I added before she could ask.
"Oh. Were you finished with your bath already?"
"Just about," I lied. "It was as wonderful as you described. Thank you."
"Okay," she said, still not sounding convinced. "Good night."
"Night"
I returned to the bathroom and wiped up the trail I had dripped. Then I emptied and cleaned the tub before getting into my nightgown and going to my bedroom. I was still shivering a little. For a while I stood by the windows and looked out at the woods and field, wondering if he was still somewhere out there or if he had returned home. I felt certain I had seen him in the window and heard his scooter on the road. I thought I heard it again, but the sound died.
It was very disturbing.
I sat thinking about it for a while, and then I decided to call him to ask him if he'd been here and why he had done that. The phone rang and rang, and I was about to hang up when I realized someone had picked
up the receiver.
"Hello?"
I waited but heard no one.
"Is Duncan at home, please?" I asked.
There was a long pause, and then in a voice that put daggers of ice in my chest, I heard someone in a coarse, raspy voice, a voice that sounded like someone struggling to breathe, say, "Get thee behind me, Satan."
The connection then went dead.
If I was on my way to enter a nightmare before, I was charging into it now. For a long moment, I couldn't move; I couldn't hang up. My fingers were locked around the receiver, as if I was holding onto it for dear life. After I did hang up, I stepped away from the phone so quickly that anyone watching would have thought I expected it to explode. Catching my breath, I retreated to my bedroom and sat, dazed and confused and still quite frightened. That had to be his mother, I thought. She had spoken in such a chilling, hateful voice. How did she know I was calling? I guessed I was the only girl who had ever called him.
I heard Tyler come home, and I went to my bedroom doorway. Just as he started for the stairway, he saw me.
"Hey, still up?"
It was on the tip of my tongue to pour everything out of me, accompanied by my sobs, but I swallowed it back and forced a smile.
"I'm just going to sleep now," I said.
"Me too. Sweet dreams," he said and went up the stairs.
I closed my door softly and, despite my effort not to, listened to my memory. Once again I heard the raspy whisper of Duncan's mother calling me the very thing I had feared all my life . . . evil.
Falling asleep was nearly impossible. Every time I did drift off, I woke with a start, expecting to see Duncan's face in one of the windows. I even dreamed I saw his mother's face in one as well. I had no idea what she looked like. When I thought about it, I realized the face I was imagining was that of Craig's mother, Mrs. Harrison.
After all, who else's face belonged in that nightmare? Who could possibly hate me more?
Had I found someone who could?
Despite my miserable night, I rose just about the same time Tyler did.
"Hey," he said when I entered the kitchen. He laughed when he looked up at me. "You sure you're not sleepwalking?"
"I couldn't sleep anymore," I said.
He nodded, concerned.
"Yeah, I know where you're coming from. You've got too much laying on your mind, Alice. I should give you some lessons in meditation."
"Maybe," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
"I meant to ask you if you knew how to drive a stick shift?"
"No. I took driver's education class in school, and going for my driver's test was part of the final, but we always drove automatics. Actually, I haven't done all that much driving in any kind of car. Grandpa's always trying to get me to take the wheel, but I've never been that interested. Another thing that makes me weird to my schoolmates, I suppose," I added. "Grandpa would probably buy me my own car if I showed any interest."
"I saw how reluctant you were to take Zipporah's car the other day. It's because of the accident you were in, right?"
"Something like that."
"You know what they say. If you fall off a bike, you should get right back on. I'd be glad to give you some lessons on my stick shift. It's a fun car to drive."
"I don't have anywhere I'd like to go."
"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. My car isn't used all day and most of the night because
I'm chained to the cafe. With a few lessons, it could be your way of tooling around as well." He leaned toward me and whispered, "Zipporah hates driving it, so she'll be more reluctant to give up her car."
"Thanks for the offer," I said, smiling. "Maybe I will let you give me some lessons."
"That's the spirit. You're too young not to be eager to try new things." He sipped his coffee. "Zipporah was telling me about your painting. It sounds interesting."
"I don't know. I'm just tinkering with something."
"That's how most artists do it, I bet. Well, I'd better get going. Zipporah's still asleep," he whispered. "Something was bothering her last night. She tossed and turned so much, I thought she'd bounce me out of the bed."
"Oh?"
"Pm sure it's nothing serious," he quickly added. "She's had nights like that before. Don't worry about it," he told me, but I couldn't help wondering if she had seen or heard more than she had let on last night and she was worrying about me.
I didn't want to wake her, but I didn't go into the studio for a while, hoping she would come down. Finally, I went out and started to set up to continue my painting. I tried to get back into it, but there was just too much distracting me. I did very little before I heard Aunt Zipporah call from the doorway.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning. I don't want to bother you, but I'm heading out. I overslept. You going to be all right?"
"I'm fine," I said. "You sure I shouldn't go with you to the cafe?"
"Tyler is adamant that you have time for your art. We're so much busier on the weekends. Don't worry about it. Call me if you need anything, okay?"
"I will. Thanks," 1 shouted after her.
I went to the doorway and listened to her back out of the garage and then drive off. When I turned around again, Duncan was standing in the studio bathroom doorway. He looked like he had just woken up himself. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were still sleepy. In fact, he looked dazed.
"How did you get in there?" I asked
immediately. "How long have you been in there?"
He stared at me, then scrubbed his cheeks vigorously.
"I fell asleep on the floor," he replied.
"When?"
"Last night sometime."
"Why?"
He didn't say anything. He walked over to my painting and looked at it.
"Duncan? What are you doing? Why did you peep through our bathroom window last night?" I demanded, and he turned.
"Huh? I didn't do that," he said. "Don't say that." "I saw you looking in at me."
He shook his-head. "No. I didn't do that."
"You're scaring me, Duncan. I know it was you. I heard your scooter, too. I saw you waiting in the shadows when my aunt and I came home."
"That's not true. None of that is true." He pointed to my painting. "You're in this picture, you know. You're the doe and you don't even realize why," he said angrily and charged toward the doorway.
"Duncan!"
He turned. "I gotta go. I'm sorry I scared you, but I didn't want to go home last night. My mother is still very mad at me for eating dinner here the other night and not telling her where I was, and now she'll be even angrier that I returned and spent the night away from home."
"You're admitting you were here then. You're saying you were here?"
"I was in here. That's all. I told you. I had a bad argument with her and ran out of the house. I didn't have any other place to go. I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. That's he said and left.
I walked slowly to the doorway and watched him trekking across the field of high grass. He was marching with his head down, as if he had to get away as quickly as he could. He's probably just ashamed of himself, I thought, but to be out all night just to avoid his mother . . . I couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
Suddenly, before he reached the road, he stopped and stood there for a moment. Then he turned around, looked toward me and slowly made his way back. I folded my arms under my breasts and walked out to meet him.
"What are you doing, Duncan?"
He kept his head down.
"I'm sorry," he said in an entirely different sounding tone of voice. "I want to be . . . to be with you, but I'm afraid of what will happen."
"What will happen?"
He looked up, his eyes glassy, but said nothing.
"I thought we decided that wouldn't be the case with us," I said. "I thought we decided we would fight it, fight the whole idea that we inherited sin."
"No, I was wrong. Something terrible is probably going to hap
pen to either us or people we love or love us." He looked away.
"How can you tell that?"
He shook his head but avoided looking at me.
"Your mother is telling you that, right? She is the one saying all these things. I called your house last night after I was sure you were here."
He turned back quickly. "You spoke to her?" "Sorta. I wouldn't call it speaking to her. I asked for you and she said something terrible to me."
"What?"
"She called me Satan."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What's wrong with her? What's her problem? She doesn't know anything about me. How could she say such a terrible thing to me?"
He didn't answer my question. Instead, he looked at me intently and said, "I've never wanted to be with any girl as much as I want to be with you, Alice. I've looked at other girls and thought about them, but I've never been this close with any and I've never been thinking day and night about any like I do about you."
I smiled. "That's all good, Duncan. There's nothing terrible about that. Don't let her make you think there is."
His face softened, his eyes more relaxed.
"You're probably hungry," I said. "C'mon. I'll make you some breakfast."
"No, I don't think . . ."
"It's nothing. I'll put up some coffee. You want scrambled eggs? I make great scrambled eggs. Even you won't be able to improve on them," I added.
He started to smile, then looked back at the field as if someone was waiting for him.
"You've been out all night, Duncan. What difference will another hour or so make?"
My logic got to him. He nodded and followed me back into the house. He sat in the kitchen while I poured him a glass of orange juice.
"What kind of eggs would you like?"
"I'll just have some coffee. Maybe some toast," he said.
I began to prepare the coffee. I could feel his eyes intently on me, on my every move. I could also feel a trembling inside myself. When I looked at him, he just stared back. He had barely touched his juice.
"Look, Duncan, I'm no one to be giving anyone advice about how he or she should live his or her life, but you can't let your mother do this to you. You're like someone walking around with invisible chains around his wrists and his legs."